


sundays are for the boys

by frenchleaves



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Bokuto Week 2020, Domestic, Drinking, Established Relationship, Everyone is nonbinary they all use he/they yes this is canon, Family Dinners, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Haikyuu!! Manga Spoilers, M/M, OsaAka Week 2020, Platonic Relationships, Post-Time Skip, Takes place exactly on September 27 2020 if you want to be exact, mentions of covid lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:02:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26497579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frenchleaves/pseuds/frenchleaves
Summary: a sunday evening, a family dinner, and a photo album;
Relationships: Akaashi Keiji & Bokuto Koutarou, Akaashi Keiji/Miya Osamu, Bokuto Koutarou/Miya Atsumu, Miya Atsumu & Miya Osamu
Comments: 5
Kudos: 42
Collections: Bokuto Week 2020, Osaaka Week 2020





	sundays are for the boys

**Author's Note:**

> FOR BOKUTO WEEK AND OSAAKA WEEK I COULD SYNC THEM UP AHAHAHAHHAHA. Prompt is Domestic for both Day 3 of bokuto week and Day 4 of osaaka week ;) Stan bokuatsu, fools. 
> 
> title is a joke. i couldn't find a song that could fit it and i went crazy for about five minutes. yeah. 
> 
> no beta <3333333

* * *

There is an incessant yet rhythmic tapping coming from the kitchen, twice after every other second, and a freshly bathed Miya Atsumu makes his way towards the sound, soft cardigan itching against his skin as his arms carry a tray of forgotten mugs that had been left on the bedroom during the weekend. In the kitchen, he finds a bored looking Bokuto, already dressed up and hair gelled to perfection, eyes glazed over as they tap on the counter with the tips of their fingers. Atsumu wonders if they even notice the movement. 

Bokuto’s eyes wander towards the falling leaves, marking the end of September and the beginning of fall. They’re wearing a shirt that fits tight against the muscles on their arms and across their back, and Atsumu is so very thankful for getting that for his partner’s birthday, last Sunday. Atsumu believes he falls in love with Bokuto again just then. 

“Hey, Bo,” Atsumu greets, moving around the kitchen, starting to place the mugs directly into the dishwater, before deciding to wash them by hand. He puts on the gloves he bought to protect his hands before doing so, may the gods forbid that he places his hands under such terrible conditions, all clammy over dish soap, skin cracked and– _ugh,_ that’s his worst nightmare. “Ya okay?”

They snap out of their reverie, and look at Atsumu, eyes bright and smile blinding. “Of course I am! You’re here now,” they exclaim, as if that is fact and they were missing Atsumu for taking a ten minute shower. It hurts in Atsumu’s heart to be loved by a person to such an immense degree, but they revel in each other’s lights as if moths to a flame. The blonde blushes on the tips of his ears and turns back to wash the mugs, hands moving meticulously as he washes the grime of dried coffee and tea and chocolate from each corner. “It’s too bad we can’t go to a restaurant or whatever, ‘Tsumu. It would save ‘Samu so much work.”

“They’re the scrub that didn’t want us going to Onigiri Miya because of the restrictions, even if it’d only be the four of us,” he places a mug carefully to the side, watching as drops of water fall down towards the plastic where the cutlery tends to be left to dry. “The restaurant spent a lot of time closed just after opening, but at least they could get by with house delivery, or the whole thing would’ve gone ta shit.”

He feels Bokuto nod, the whole movement sharp and yet so endearing. “Well, at least we can eat here.”

“It’s gonna to be so annoying to clean up after,” Atsumu sighs, head leaning on the cabinet over the dishwasher, and lets out a groan. “But there’s no way we’re going to ‘Samu’s place. I went there this week and there’s rice even behind the TV. Poor Kei-kun was going crazy in their room over some deadlines and I could even see rice on his hair. We are not eating there, that’s unsanitary.”

“So, Omi-omi definitely rubbed off you,” Atsumu gives his partner the stink eye, but Bokuto just laughs, “No wonder he was so stressed when I called him yesterday. I think Tenma was late on his last deadline, which just makes Akaashi go insane. And an insane Akaashi is one that cannot be controlled.” 

Over the sounds of pouring water, Atsumu feels Bokuto move around the kitchen, before stopping right behind him, and wrapping their arms around his waist in a tight hug. “That’s what that devil deserves,” Atsumu mutters, and feels the vibrations of Bokuto’s laughter against his back. It’s amazing how positive of a response he always has for the other’s willing affection. The blonde feels like he has been missing Bokuto since he was born, like if being a twin was one part of his soul, and the other was meant to be filled by a man too bright and too affective and willing to love Atsumu and everyone around him unconditionally. Bokuto smiles into his neck, and presses a kiss on his nape, right below where his undercut has been growing into a buzz. 

“C’mon, Kou. If ya do that I’ll just go crazy, and ‘Samu and ‘Kaashi will arrive any minute,” he says exasperated but fond, and closes the tap of water. Bokuto just snickers and presses his lips there once more. As he carefully takes the gloves off, finger by finger and careful so no moisture makes their way inside the fingers, the doorbell rings. “Talk‘ bout the devil and they shall appear.”

“I’ll get it!” Bokuto presses a quick kiss on Atsumu’s lips as they bound over to open the door, arms now floating in the space beside his body. The blonde rolls his eyes, and moves to take out a wine bottle that had been cooling in the fridge. 

The door opens, as Atsumu hears from the kitchen. In the meanwhile, he takes out four glasses for the rosé, and takes out the corkscrew, pulling it into the cork and smiling as he hears the satisfying pop of it pulling out of the thin corridor of the bottle. He hears his sibling step in, knowing them from the tenor of their voice to the cadence of their steps, so deeply ingrained into memory. Atsumu also hears the telltale enthusiasm of Bokuto reuniting with Akaashi, which is always so funny to watch. After a moment, the door of the kitchen is pushed open, and Osamu steps in, hands full of bags of his homemade food. 

“‘Tsumu,” they say, and the lack of greeting makes him want to throttle his twin. Their face is hidden behind a mask, hair under a black cap. Atsumu wonders if his sibling knows how suspicious they look. Regardless, they make their way over to the counter as if they lived in that place, and start taking out several plastic containers of rice, chicken, and some gyozas. “We brought the food.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” he mutters, pouring the last glass of wine before passing one to them, “Take you cap off, don’t be disrespectful.”

Osamu rolls his eyes, and Atsumu can see the top of his cheekbone moving and his eyes crinkling, smiling sardonically under the mask. “Mmh,” he says, “take off the asshole mask, it’s disrespectful.”

“Don’t start,” calls Akaashi, leaning on the entrance to the kitchen. It’s not that big of a space, so it starts to feel cluttered. He gives Osamu a knowing look, before moving to gaze at Atsumu, tone apologetic. Bokuto can be heard from the table at the living room, placing plates and cutlery and napkins, and Atsumu hopes they don’t make a mess. “Don’t mind them, Osamu had to spend the entire evening cleaning rice out of the apartment.”

Dinner is a chaotic affair. There is no way it wouldn’t be, with Bokuto’s loud laughter over Akaashi’s deadpan comments, Osamu drumming his metal chopsticks over the ceramic plates just because he knows Atsumu always grimaces at the sound, and his own long whines about being bullied by all the people he loves, said loudly and annoyingly but voice sweet and unabashedly showing his affection. In a way, this reminds Atsumu of all the family dinners he has missed over the years, be it because of volleyball practice or their mother’s busy schedule, and then the distance. 

“Have you heard of Hinata?” Akaashi asks after taking a bite of a gyoza, just after everyone had maintained quiet for a whole minute. “Last I knew he was in Miyagi visiting his sister, but could he get to Tokyo in the end? I know frontiers between regions have been harsh.”

Atsumu nods absentmindedly, but it is Bokuto who answers. “Yeah, he texted me about two weeks ago that he could finally get to Kenma’s place. They’ve been holed up there since, Kenma’s been making a lot of live videos on their channel playing games with him.” There’s a soft look in their eyes, golden and proud. “It’s actually super entertaining just to watch them both mess around, y’know?”

“Yeah,” says Akaashi, sharing a look with Bokuto. It mirrors so much Atsumu’s own interactions with Osamu that it hurts. “After all of this is over we should visit them both.”

“We’ll probably train with Hinata after the quarantine is fully lifted,” Atsumu supplies from their seat, not fully swallowing the rice in his mouth before speaking. “The Olympics have yet to be rescheduled, but we should be ready for when the time comes.” Bokuto agrees with a grunt from his seat, filling their mouth with chicken and rice.

They all continue talking, topics moving randomly from movies to workout routines to the recipe of the perfect banana bread. In the end, Bokuto says something about a terrible picture of Atsumu as a child that should be recreated in the near future, and the blonde can feel Osamu perk up. “Ya still have that one album?”

Atsumu can only groan. “Of course I do,” he whines, questioning all his life decisions.

“Such an emotional dweeb,”

“What album?” interrupts Akaashi, chopsticks forgotten on the side of his plate. He sips the last of his wine, before Atsumu moves to fill his glass again, thankfully not to the brim as they did the second round.

“Just some photos ‘Tsumu has printed out in an album. They’re mainly of him and ‘samu as toddlers and then just horribly unphotogenic pictures of him.” Bokuto provides, smile growing as if they distinctly remember each and every pixel and color and order of the album. Atsumu would be ready to throttle them and his sibling if he was not emotionally attached to the countless pages of memories. Bokuto stands up, so quickly Atsumu can’t follow them so the album stays hidden, “I’ll go bring it here!”

“No, Koutarou,” he whines over Osamu’s laughter, “You know how I feel about that!”

In the end, both his devil partner and sibling hand the photo album to Akaashi.

“Oh, that’s so adorable,” Akaashi mumbles as he passes to a page where the twins are adorned in volleyball paraphernalia, too young to yet fit in the athletic clothes. “Who gave this to you?”

“Mom and Osamu gave it to me when I joined the Black Jackals,” Atsumu mumbles from Bokuto’s shoulder, and Akaashi turns to look at his partner with a newfound gaze of adoration. “‘Samu made sure I looked the ugliest in all pictures with the both of us, and then they printed all my ugly snapchat selfies! We don’t need memories, my ass. They just kept everything and had the audacity to print them out!”

“Ya still kept them,” Osamu points out, tilting the glass of wine so the last of it falls into his mouth, “Says a lot about ya, asshole.”

“I don’t know what ya see in this idiot,” Atsumu whines, falling backwards onto the couch, just wanting to disappear. He had kept them for purely sentimental reasons, but Bokuto once found him about to cut them off, and they had almost burst out crying because _how can you destroy such an amazing gift?_ Needless to say, Atsumu kept the album intact. “He’s the absolute worst.”

Akaashi does not seem to pay him any mind, as he coos over a picture of Osamu and Atsumu as toddlers, dressed head to toe identically as farmers. Bokuto, who has been suspiciously quiet, laughs on Atsumu’s shoulder. “You’re so photogenic but there’s times when you look like a gremlin,” they exclaims, trailing Atsumu’s jaw with his thumb. The blonde swallows sharply, and turns to Akaashi and Osamu once again. His twin looks at him knowingly, and he scowls. “Awe, don’t be mad, ‘Tsum-tsum.”

Closing the album suddenly, Akaashi manages to capture the three other’s attention in a flash. “Don’t worry, Atsumu-kun,” he says calmly, and Atsumu can feel Bokuto tense beside him, as if they know what Akaashi will say. “I have a compilation of Bokuto’s worst pictures right here on my phone. I can send them to you.”

Eyes widen, and Atsumu sits up. “Oh, yer my new favorite, Kei-kun!”

“Oi, ‘Tsumu, go cuddle with Bokuto and leave my partner alone!”

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


After an hour of talking and gushing over pictures and memories and everything and nothing, the group goes through four bottles of wine, conversation seeming funnier by the minute, even to the point where Akaashi says something in haiku format, and Bokuto can’t seem to stop giggling. The conversation evolves then to Atsumu giving Akaashi random pictures of Bokuto’s terrible photo album and asking him to make a haiku for each of them. 

The wine has loosened his tongue, and cadence comes as easy as tone and as easy as rhyme. It’s truly a work of art, Osamu notices, how Akaashi can just weave words into each other and make them flow seamlessly as if they were the threads of an intrinsically made carpet. 

Osamu notices that the wine bottle is empty, and grabs it as they stand up to place it in the kitchen. The movement goes unnoticed by the other three, who laugh and laugh over the silliest words Akaashi can come up with. In the kitchen, he finds all of Atsumu’s handprints, from the way the left cabinet is crooked to the way a cleaning rag is strung over the faucet, and the gloves carefully folded and placed safely on a corner. It’s nothing like Osamu’s and Akaashi’s kitchen, always a mess over new onigiri experiments, always in constant use, Akaashi’s seemingly never ending amount of papers strung around the counter and the table and once even on the fridge after a particular all-nighter. 

It’s not as heavy anymore, but Osamu still misses the ever present presence of their twin.

_Shut up, drunk Osamu,_ he thinks or mumbles or even whispers to himself as he opens the fridge to find even more bottles of rosé. They recognize it as the cheapest brand in the supermarket just a block away, and know that Atsumu must have gone and bought as many cheap wine bottles as he could, the dumbass. The corkscrew is just left of the dishwasher, so he sticks it in and starts pulling outward, sighing in tandem with the satisfactory pop of the cork.

“You look way too excited over a wine bottle,” Akaashi says from the door, and the voices of Atsumu and Bokuto must’ve masked his steps, considering Osamu hadn’t even heard him come close. On his hands he holds both of their wine bottles, empty and ready to be filled. “Bokuto-san and Atsumu-kun have begun to become disgusting.”

“Ya, that happens if ya leave them drunk and on a couch,” they snicker, filling both their glasses to the middle of their capacity. “I’m sorry for leaving ya there, Keiji.”

Akaashi presses a quick peck on their lips, or maybe they stay put for a second too long, and he blushes under Osamu’s stare. The wine bottles are left on the counter after two sips, when Osamu opens their arms and Akaashi presses against their chest in both a hug and a promise. “Don’t worry, love,” he inhales, exhales, and Osamu can feel the exchange of air in their own lungs, “I’ve also known them both for a while, I knew it was bound to happen.”

They both stay there, pressed against each other against the counter, breathing in tandem and with closed eyes. Maybe the embrace is warmer and firmer as an attempt to mask the lack of balance the wine had given them momentarily, or because they both needed to hold tight. 

After what feels like both an hour and a blink of an eye, Osamu’s head snaps up. They still embrace Akaashi, and they’re so close they can feel the warmth of his breath under their jaw. “It’s way too quiet.”

Eyes widen, and Akaashi nods, “They’re probably asleep,” he says into Osamu’s chest. “We should probably go home too.”

They move out of the kitchen, and from the door they can see Bokuto and Atsumu, so intertwined and pushed into a corner of the couch it looks as if they’ve already melted into each other. The blonde has his mouth open, drool dripping from the corner and onto Bokuto’s shoulder, whose face is hidden under Atsumu’s bleached hair. It’s both so funny and endearing. Osamu is thankful for Keiji, or else they would feel so jealous for the lack of company, and the promise to be the happier twin flashes again in their mind, a careful reminder to make the most out of what they have. 

“I’m glad they found each other,” Akaashi mumbles, sipping his wine as he looks outside the window. “I’m not very selfish or egoistical about it, but I did worry about Bokuto’s dependency with our team and how they would work with a new one so suddenly. People have never treated them as well as they should when they don’t know them well and how to manage their personality.”

Osamu nods, understanding. It had taken so long to get their twin to understand that they were leaving volleyball to pursue their actual dream, by their own merit and not weighed down by the expectations that came when presented as a package deal. Surely, Akaashi understood that, but maybe not to the same degree. After all, Atsumu and Osamu had even started as one cell, in the same womb, the same genesis. “I still worry about Atsumu sometimes,” they confess, so quiet it’s almost an afterthought, feeling both an equal and so much younger than their older twin, “But he’s learned to operate alone, just as I did.”

“Yeah,” Akaashi looks at them, cheeks flushed from the wine and the corners of his lips tugged upwards. There is a dimple on his right cheek, and Osamu moves a hand to press a finger against it. He looks then at Osamu, turning slowly but surely, and his smile widens. “They’re definitely going to regret sleeping like that tomorrow,” they say, leaning a head on his shoulder. Osamu has never been the weaker twin, he’s sure of this (Atsumu is a wimp), but Akaashi’s hair is so soft and it curls at the nape, and they have no choice but to dip their fingers in, massaging his scalp.

“Oh, _yeah_. Definitely,” they mumble against his ear, the alcohol in his blood working against his consciousness. Osamu then just moves to hug his partner, Akaashi melting into it as if he were molten bronze. “Wanna go home? I already left the leftover in the fridge. We’ll just take the bottle with us.”

“It’s late,” There’s a nod against his shoulder, and Osamu hums. It takes them a few minutes to gather their things, but Osamu figures that if they leave anything they can just come back later to pick it up. “I’ll call a cab,” Akaashi mumbles, pulling away from the warmth of their embrace, and pulling out their phone. After a quick call and a mumble of an address, they make their way out, hands interlocked, with Bokuto’s snores leaving a trail of music behind them.

If Bokuto and Atsumu wake up the next morning with a post-it on each of their foreheads, a message of thanks for the food on one and Iwaizumi Hajime’s number to schedule a physiotherapy session over _bad sleeping choices_ on another, well that’s a story for another time. 

**Author's Note:**

> who wants to be my non-binary best friend.
> 
> i think i gave up halfway through actually. having no plot and only fluff is sooo boring so enjoy. next time i'll add some more angst and metaphors about the sun and religion. okay also i maybe blacked out and will not check out for any mistakes, so if u see any just point them out <3 tyyy
> 
> also, my twitter [@shikameninist](https://twitter.com/shikameninist) uwu and my [atsumu playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6e9H0UvwJos6RQOoJsJjwb?si=geHZQ1DmTxywEAtoIVgHfQ) because my worst character trait is kinning.


End file.
